But saved his pains, and left you, stern as stone,
To adore yourself and doings all alone.

An honest man, and wise withal, will blame
Lines that are harsh, or slovenly, or tame;
Will cut ambitious ornaments away,

Force you to make what's dark as clear as day;
Challenge what bears a double sense, and mark
What should be changed,-a second Aristarch.*
Nor will he say, "For trifles why should I
Perplex my friend?" These trifles by-and-by
Will lead to grave disaster, and bring down
The sneers and ridicule of all the town.

A crack-brained poet! Dread him, from him
fly!

A wretch with jaundice baned, or leprosy,
A wild fanatic, under Dian's curse,t—
All these are bad, but a mad poet's worse;
A wide berth give him as along he reels
With reckless urchins shouting at his heels!
If roaming through the fields with head on high,
Like fowler watching blackbirds in the sky,
And spouting verses as he goes, he fall
Into a well or pit, there let him bawl,

"Help, help, good people-help!" till he is hoarse;
You'd never think to pull him out, of course.
But should some booby, moved with pity, throw
The wretch a rope, I'd say, "How can you know,

* Aristarchus of Samos, who flourished at Alexandria in the second century before Christ. His name was proverbial as the type of an intelligent and just though severe critic.

It was a common belief among Greeks and Romans that those who had offended Diana were struck by her with madness. Such persons were called by the Greeks σeλnviakoí. Our word "lunatic" has its origin in the same fancy,-a fancy probably founded on a physical fact, as certain kinds of mental disturbance are said by observers to vary with the phases of the moon.

But this is just the very thing he meant,
Being, you see, on self-destruction bent?"
Then, mindful of Empedocles, relate
How that Sicilian poet sought his fate,
Who, all to win a deathless god's renown,
Jumped into Ætna's fires quite coolly down.*
"Let poets perish when and how they will;
To save, when folks don't wish it, is to kill.†
He's tried this trick before; if now you pull
The madman up, again he'll play the fool.
Nothing will drive his ruling passion out,
To die some death will get him talked about.
Nor is it clear, if this mad itch of verse
Has not been sent upon him as a curse.

Who will make bold to say that he has not
Defiled his father's dust, profaned some spot
Levin-hallowed to the gods? One thing, at least,
Is clear-he's mad; and as some savage beast,

Empedocles, a philosopher and poet of Agrigentum in Sicily, who flourished about 440 B.C. Various marvellous stories are told of his death. They mostly concur in stating that he perished in the crater of Mount Etna. Some say that he fell in by accident when exploring the crater for the purposes of philosophical observation; others, that he chose this mode of concealing his death, in order to beget the belief that he had been swept up to heaven by the gods. His intention in this respect, however, was foiled, as the volcano threw up his iron sandals, and revealed the fact, -as if they would not have been fused in the flames within a few seconds! If the first part of the story has no better foundation than the last, poor Empedocles has been much maligned.

+ Invitum qui servat idem facit occidenti. Probably a proverb. Seneca says the same thing in nearly the same words (Phon. 100) "Occidere est vetare cupientem mori”–

"To hinder whosoe'er is bent to die

Is to destroy him."

So Racine ("La Thébaide, ou Les Frères Ennemis," Act iv. sc. 6)-

"Ah! c'est m'assassiner que me sauver la vie."

The triste bidental of the original was a spot which had been struck by lightning, and enclosed to prevent its being thereafter profaned

VOL. II.

2 C

That from his den has managed to get free,

Spreads terror through the streets, even so will he,
By his appalling mania to recite,

Put simple souls and scholars both to flight.

Let him catch one, that one to death he'll bore

A leech that won't let go till gorged with gore."

by human foot. When any place was struck by lightning, everything which bore the marks of the celestial fire was carefully gathered together by an aruspex, who covered it up with earth, sacrificed a sheep, consecrated the spot, and surrounded it with an enclosing wall. It was a crime to tread upon a spot so consecrated.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

EPODES.

I. If thou in thy Liburnians go

II. Happy the man, in busy schemes unskilled

III. If his old father's throat any impious sinner

IV. Such hate as nature meant to be

V. What, O ye gods, who from the sky

VI. Vile cur, why will you late and soon

VII. Ah, whither would ye, dyed in guilt, thus headlong

IX. When, blest Mæcenas, shall we twain

X. Foul fall the day, when from the bay

XI. O Pettius! no pleasure have I, as of yore

XIII. With storm and wrack the sky is black, and sleet and

dashing rain

XIV. Why to the core of my inmost sense

XV. "Twas night!—let me recall to thee that night!

XVI. Another age in civil wars will soon be spent and worn
XVII. Here at thy feet behold me now

II. The players on the flute, the quacks, the vendors of

perfume

113

III. All singers have this failing; asked to sing.

115

IV. The bards of ancient comedy, when it was at its best

124

V. Fresh from great Rome with all its din .

131

VI. Though Lydian none, Mæcenas, may be found

140

II. What the virtue consists in, and why it is great

178

VI. My prayers with this I used to charge
VII. I've heard you scold this hour, and spare not
VIII. Nasidienus' dinner, eh

223

243

253

EPISTLES.

BOOK I.

I. Theme of my earliest lays, and of the last

263

II. Whilst, Lollius, you at Rome declaim and plead

271

III. Florus, I try to learn, but try in vain
IV. Albius, kind critic of my Satires, how
V. If you on couches can recline

VI. The best, indeed the only means I know
VII. Five days or so, I said, I should be gone
VIII. To Celsus, Nero's secretary, take .

IX. Septimius only understands, 'twould seem
X. To Fuscus, our most city-loving friend
XI. Now that you've seen them all, Bullatius,—
-seen
XII. Dear Iccius, if you rightly use

276

278

280

283

288

294

296

297

301

XIII. These volumes, Vinius, (such my strict commands)
XIV. Grieve of my woodlands and my small domain

XVI. As, dearest Quintius, you may wish to know.
XVII. Though your fine instinct, Scæva, keeps you straight